


Two cocktails and an assassin

by Kizzywiggle



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Abusing the lyrics of Dancing Queen, Assassins, Drunk Dancing, M/M, Ridiculous Flirting, cocktails
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 21:24:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11388726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kizzywiggle/pseuds/Kizzywiggle
Summary: Another throwaway comment - "send me an assassin and two cocktails" on Twitter planted seeds.Very short.Very silly.Very unresearched and unedited.





	Two cocktails and an assassin

The first cocktail had been sweet, the burn of rum and the tang of lime sliding down his throat in a burst of summery fumes and optimism. The first cocktail - drunk three-plus hours ago, and eventually followed by tequila...and scotch...and most recently, “The strongest fucking vodka you’ve got, mate,” - had sat next to another just like it. The second cocktail was still there, the mint leaves now pathetically drowned-looking, the lime slice drying into stiffness while the alcohol in the glass slowly evaporated.

The second cocktail was picked up; half of it necked back messily, the rest carried to the tiny, intimate dancefloor by the bar to be whirled about by a very drunk, very miserable man yelling along to Abba’s _Dancing Queen._ “You’re a teaser, you turn ‘em onnnnnn - you _bastard!_ \- leave ‘em...something...and then you’re gone - you prick - something, something, you bastard, oh whatever, da-dooo, you’re in the mood for a _BLOODY, BUGGERING SHITE!_ ” at which point the rest of the second cocktail was unceremoniously drunk, and the glass hurled at the nearest wall.

The miserable drinker found himself summarily ejected from the bar with polite insistence shortly afterwards, and pitched up, snivelling and snotting by the large bins ubiquitous to every such business. He slid down the bin and fumbled in his pocket for his phone. The screen lit, bathing him with a blue glow that made him look particularly unwell as he slowly, deliberately scrolled to his contacts and tapped a number. It rang three times before going to voicemail; the man waited until the message finished and spoke with slow precision.

“Hey, voicemail, it’s...it’s me. Could you, would you, _kindly_ tell your owner that he’s stood me up for the last time? I waited. I waited and waited, and I’m not doing it any more. This is it. Thank you. Goodbye.”

He thumbed the screen off and slid the phone into his pocket again before bursting into loud, ugly tears. After a moment, the door from the bar opened and one of the patrons stepped out, cigarettes in hand. When she saw the man sobbing by the bins she came over and stood about three feet away, a concerned look on her face. “Uh, hi…? Are you...ok?”

The man looked up, streetlights reflecting dully from the tear tracks on his cheeks. “I’m fine, really,” he said, before hiccuping drunkenly.”Just fine.”

She stepped closer and hunched down next to him, wobbling on her spindly heels as she did so. “Can I get you something? Some water? Would you like a fag?” She held out the packet, and he nodded, taking one. She did the same and lit them both, the click of the lighter somehow loud as a gunshot in the night air. There was the deep suck and long exhale of happy smokers and a contemplative moment’s silence before she spoke again. “I’m Mel,” 

Drunkenly, he looked at her outstretched hand and up to her face. “Mel?”

“That’s my name, Mel; god, you’re a long way gone. We should find you a taxi or something.” She stood and pulled out her own phone, looking away from the broken man on the ground. She didn’t notice when he stood in a silent rush and moved behind her. She did notice when he wrapped a large, steady hand around her neck.

“Mel Frobisher?”

“How do you know that?” she choked out around the constriction about her windpipe.

“We know everything, Mel,” he replied conversationally, and without a trace of drunkenness in his voice. “We know that you’re thirty four, you have two cats, too many shoes, and that you've been selling secrets to your opposite for six months. We know that, because you are monitored at work, Mel. You’ve been given plenty of opportunities to stop selling secrets, Mel, but you haven’t, _Mel_.” He tightened the hand around her neck painfully, making her wheeze and rise up on tiptoe. “We also know that the secrets you’ve _chosen_ to sell are the most harmful you could, Mel. And because of this, Mel, I’m afraid I’ve got to do _this_.”

He pulled a syringe from his pocket and plunged it into her neck, quickly injecting the poison it contained into her body. Within seconds she began to spasm, eyes rolling back in her head and teeth banging together before she stiffened. For long, long moments they were frozen in tableau; he curled about her tightly arched body almost like a lover, the pair of them closer than lovers, wrapped in the intimacy of death until she shuddered, exhaling a long, low moan, going slack in his arms.

James Bond lowered the body of the woman to the grubby floor of the alley and pocketed the syringe. He pulled his phone out again and dialled the same number as before. “M? It’s done. We’ll need cleanup. Thanks.” He tabbed off and then dialled again. “Hey, Q. Yes, I’m done. See you in a minute.” Sliding the phone back into his pocket, James looked down at the body of Mel Frobisher, ex-secretary to the director of the Midlands regional office of MI6, and sighed. “You silly cow,” he said. “There are easier ways to commit suicide.”

The door to the bar opened again, and a slim, scruffy young man with thick, dark hair and matching glasses walked out. “As far as dates go, this is not even close to the worst I’ve been on,” he commented in a dry tone. “In fact, watching you ‘drunk dance’ to Abba has to be something of a personal highlight, James...and such a flair for invective! I am as ever, impressed.” He walked up and kissed James on the mouth, both men ignoring the body in favour of more interesting things. After a moment they pulled apart. Q gave a small tight smile. James returned it with a broad one of his own.

“It’s a refreshing change to the bang-them-and-off-them routine,” he observed. “And considering Tony has been palming me off with non-alcoholic substitutes _all night_ ,” he grimaced, “My drama O Level finally got an airing.” He struck a dramatic pose and looked down his nose at Q.

Q rolled his eyes and sighed. “Well, Laurence Olivier, once the clean-up crew arrive, how about I take you home and check your _other_ 'o’ levels?” James grinned and waggled his eyebrows, looking ten years younger. “That's a yes, then?” 

“That's a yes, then,” James agreed. “But I warn you - my performances have been known to cause all sorts of unexpected emotional responses in the audience...” 


End file.
